A Walk on the Moon
by DeeDeeINFJ
Summary: Eric helps Sookie relive an historic moment. Entry for the Eric n' Sooks Summer of '69 One-Shot Contest.


**Eric n' Sooks - Summer of '69 One-shot Contest**

**Title: **A Walk on the Moon

**Your Pen name: **DeeDeeINFJ

**Characters: **Eric and Sookie

**AN:** Title comes from the movie of the same name, in which Anna Paquin plays a teenage girl who comes of age during the summer of the moon landing and Woodstock. Thanks to Konfetti for beta-reading this! And thanks to the Summer of '69 mods for giving me the go-ahead to enter it, even though technically it's not in the right time period.

**Disclaimer: **It's all Charlaine's.

**A Walk on the Moon**

_July 19, 2009_

She loves the History Channel. She leans back against my chest, her hands resting on the arms I have wrapped around her, and she watches documentaries about wars, pyramids, kings, and even – much to my amusement – sex. These types of shows have become much more accurate now that vampires can provide better information about the events. I myself was consulted about a Viking miniseries not two weeks ago. Tonight it's all about the moon landing because tomorrow is the fortieth anniversary.

"Where were you that night?" she asks during a commercial as she absently strokes my arm with her fingertips.

I smile and press my lips to her hair. "I was watching it along with everyone else."

She turns in my arms so that she's lying against me, and she slides one hand up around my neck. "It must have been especially amazing for you, what with all the history you've seen."

Thinking about the moon landing is nearly impossible when the full weight of her body rests against mine and her nose is nuzzling into my chest. But I make the attempt. "It was, yes." I run my hand through her hair, drawing it out slowly and allowing it to fall through my fingers. "My people believed that the moon was formed when embers from the fiery land of Múspell were thrown into the sky by the gods. The sun and moon were driven through the sky by chariots."

"How beautiful," she murmurs. She's getting sleepy; she worked a late shift tonight. "I wish I could've been there."

"At the creation of the world?" I ask, smiling.

She laughs a little against me. "No, the moon landing. I wish I could've been part of all that excitement, sitting around, watching it on a little black-and-white TV."

She falls asleep not long after that, and I carry her to her bed. Usually, I stay with her until dawn, but tonight I have a lot to do.

_July 20, 1969_

The twentieth of July – he had referred to it by many different names over the centuries – was the night his first child was born. He and Aude had named the boy Máni, after the chariot driver of the moon, because the full moon shone so brightly when he was born. He had been one of the three children who survived, though Eric had never seen him again after the turning.

When the humans walked on the moon, Eric didn't want to watch. He loved the modern age with all its wonders, but there was something that grieved him about these young people, only decades old, leaving their footprints on the ancient moon. It seemed blasphemous. But he gave in, clicking on his television and watching Neil Armstrong step down on the far-flung ember of Múspell. One giant leap for mankind. He could only think of his son, long dead.

_July 20, 2009_

"Oh my gosh, Eric, you scared me!" she cries as he leaps onto the bed beside her, sending her and the pillows bouncing. The almost boyish grin on his face is suspicious, and she narrows her eyes. "What are you up to?"

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her soundly, and for several long minutes she forgets her curiosity and only wants more of his mouth, more of his hands. He's the one who pulls away against her whimpered protests and says, "Get dressed, my lover." He indicates a dress hanging from the top of her bedroom door: a bright blue shirtshift with large buttons and a wide-banded plastic belt. Very retro.

"Where'd that come from?"

"1969," he replies. He's giddy, and it's infectious. That's when she notices that he, too, is dressed in older-looking clothes. Hard to tell with a man because the fashions haven't changed that much.

Whatever he's up to, she thinks she likes it, and she leaves the bed to change into her new dress. As she buckles the belt, she hears music from downstairs. "The Age of Aquarius" and "Let the Sun Shine In." She laughs and slips into the bathroom to do her hair. She knows what he's doing now, and she gets into the spirit, using her curling iron to turn up the ends of her hair until she looks like a girl in an old yearbook photo.

When she finally joins him in the living room, he grabs her hand and pulls her to him in a swift motion that leaves her breathless. "Ready?" he asks.

She doesn't know what she's ready for, exactly, but whatever it is, ohhellyes, she's ready. There's a large, old-timey TV set up in front of her regular one, and he turns it on. The black-and-white, staticky face of Walter Cronkite flickers on. Her heart leaps into her throat as she sits on the sofa, one hand on her chest, the other reaching for him.

He joins her, and they watch it together.

_Armstrong is on the moon_, Cronkite says, obviously just as excited as his invisible audience. She watches the footage she's seen so many times before, only this time she's crying because she feels the history of it. She's in 1969 sharing this with Eric. She tries to imagine that she's as old as he is, that she's seen that moon for centuries before this night, but she can't. She can only see it as herself.

The recording ends, and she turns to him, still crying. "It was like seeing it for the first time," she tells him. "It was like actually being there."

"Good." He pulls her into his lap and kisses her like there's no tomorrow, like he doesn't have endless tomorrows and next weeks and next years.

He uses the stereo remote to get the music going again, and Janis is crooning "Summertime" in that raspy, passionate voice of hers while Eric starts to undo the big plastic buttons on the shirtshift. Her breaths are faster and shallower as he kisses the hollow of her collarbone, and she holds onto his hair with her hands as he wanders lower.

"Eric," she gasps.

"Mmmm," he answers, his lips and tongue otherwise occupied.

"Take me outside. I want to have you outside. We did that once…"

Before she can finish, they're outside, behind the house, under the thin sliver of moon that will disappear entirely tomorrow night. Nothing is better than vampire speed when it comes to getting rid of clothes, and she's laughing as they tumble together, naked, in the grass. The Louisiana summer is hot and sticky, so she's already got a sheen of sweat on her. She likes that, though, because Eric loves the taste of her when she's a little salty. And she's learned that when Eric loves something, he revels in it. He enjoys it. She loves being enjoyed.

He's kissing his way down her body, licking this nipple, gently biting that one, growling with approval against her skin whenever she says his name. She mowed the grass a few days ago, and it still smells fresh and sweet. His mouth is on her inner thigh now, and she cries up at the voyeuristic stars before he says "Look at me" and keeps his eyes on hers as he uses his tongue in wonderful, wonderful ways.

It isn't fair. She wants to touch him, too. She wants her hands all over him. She wants a little taste of his blood because he loves that, and it makes _her_ love that. She surprises him by sitting up and pushing him backwards. With her eyes locked on his – he loves that, too – she raises his wrist and bites hard.

He moans beneath her as she drinks, and when the wound closes, she leans down to kiss his mouth. "Sookie," he says roughly, "I want to be inside you."

She smiles at him, breathless. "Good…" She bites his lower lip a little. "Because that's right where I want you." In a flash, she's on her back again, and Eric's face is above hers, glowing. She slides her hands down his back to pull him closer. "Oh, Eric," she sighs when he pushes into her.

"Good?" he asks as he bends to kiss her.

She raises her hips to meet his in a pattern that never seems to get old. "Better than good." Her breath catches in her throat, and she needs a few seconds before she can add, "Groovy."

From this angle, the moon looks like a smile.


End file.
